Say When
by Scheherazade's Daughter
Summary: Adreno makes the pain go away, makes her feel strong and powerful, but it's all an illusion, and illusions must end. But he's there; he always is. Oneshot, Nolan/Amanda friendship. Lots of angst. TW for drug abuse.


I come across you, lost and broken  
You're coming to, but you're slow in waking  
You start to shake, you still  
Haven't spoken; what happened

They're coming back and you just don't know when  
You want to cry, but there's nothing coming  
They're gonna push until you give in or  
Say when

— The Fray, "Say When"

Adreno was the ultimate high. It made her feel powerful, in control, something she so rarely felt these days. Her blood would rush through her veins, energy would race across her skin, and her very bones would sing with pure strength. She was on top of the world, a giant among ants, when the Blue Devil was coursing through her body. Now she knew why they called it getting high.

But it was all an illusion, the strength, the power. Eventually, the drug would wear off, and the world would come rushing back, a world where everything was rapidly spiraling out of control. Her town was under occupation; Doc Yewll was in Camp Reverie, and her sister was missing, probably … she wouldn't even go there. She just wanted the good old days back, the days when she sat in the mayor's office, with Nolan and Kenya by her side, when she could go to Doc Yewll for her headaches and get a stern lecture about stress management, the days when Defiance was a free city, beholden to nothing and no one.

And now she was coming down off the high, and she felt the way she always felt going into withdrawal. Vulnerable. Raw. Exposed. Like the frightened child she really was. And this time, it was worse than ever. Her skin was freezing and burning up at the same time, and she could feel sweat trickling down the back of her neck. She couldn't stop shaking, and her breath was quick and shallow in her chest. She curled up into a ball on the floor, tugging a blanket off her bed to cover her. Her head felt like it was being sliced open with a charge blade, and her stomach heaved, but she was too weak to go to the bathroom in case she got sick. Trying to settle her stomach, she concentrated on regulating her breathing, in for four counts, hold for four counts, then out for four counts. Kenya had taught her that.

The thought of her sister only made the shaking worse, and she pulled the blanket tighter around her small, shivering body. Maybe if she curled up small enough, she would collapse in on herself, like a black hole.

She could hear footsteps approaching, heavy ones clad in well-worn combat boots. There was the soft click of the door opening, then more footsteps, then another click as the footsteps shut the door behind them. She heard the sound of someone kneeling down beside her huddled form, and felt a hand on her shoulder, gentle, concerned.

"Amanda?"

She only curled up tighter. She didn't want Nolan to see her like this. She remembered the first time they'd met, her standing tall and strong in the mayor's office, speaking sternly to the disheveled vagrant her lawkeeper had found in the woods. But that was before, before her world had shattered into a million tiny shards, leaving her with nothing but failure and the taste of ashes in her mouth.

"Amanda, it's okay. It's only me." His voice was soft and gentle; she'd heard him use it before, talking to his daughter when she'd woken from one of her nightmares. She'd been out for a walk, and had happened to pass by his house, heard the young Irathient girl's cries, and looked in the window to make sure everything was all right. She'd felt like an intruder, witnessing that moment, and yet had not been able to look away.

And now he was using that voice on her, the father-voice, and it only made her feel younger and smaller. He rolled her over onto her back, and she whimpered as his hands touched her hypersensitive skin. She felt his fingers pulling her eyelids open, and turned her head away with a cry.

"Your pupils are dilated," he said. He picked up her wrist and felt for a pulse. "Your heart's racing. How much did you take?"

"I don't know," she murmured. She just wanted him to go away, to leave her alone. The symptoms would pass; they always did. She'd have a headache, and she wouldn't be able to keep anything down for a while, but she'd feel better. And perhaps that was one of the reasons she kept taking the drugs. Because she could feel herself recovering, physically at least. And that was better than not recovering at all. She remembered scraping her knee as a child, and being fascinated by how the wound scabbed over, and the scab eventually fell off, leaving pink, puckered skin that would fade into the faintest of scars.

"Oh, Amanda," he sighed, a note of sorrow in his voice, sorrow at seeing a woman so mighty fall so far. "Come on, let's get you into bed." His hands scooped her up as easily as if she were a child, then set her back down on her bed. It was soft and warm, so much more comfortable than the floor. She was glad now, that he'd found her, because she'd never have made it to the bed on her own, not like this. He arranged the blanket on top of her, then felt her forehead with his wrist. "You've got a bit of a fever," he noted.

"Too much," she slurred. "Shouldn't take so much at once. Bigger they stand …" She was still shivering, hot and cold at the same time, stomach churning, and she could feel her heart trying to break through her ribcage. Her head felt as though a vise were gripping her temples. "Make it stop," she moaned.

She heard water sloshing as Nolan filled the washbasin, then felt a cold cloth on her forehead. It felt so nice, so soothing on her hot skin. Her headache even lessened a bit, and she wasn't shaking as much.

"I know," he whispered, still using the father-voice. His hand gently stroked her limp hair. "I know. You're okay. I've got you."

"How'd it get like this, Nolan?" she asked. "A year ago …"

He kept on stroking her hair. "I don't know," he whispered, shaking his head. There was a pause, then he asked, "Why do you do this to yourself?"

It was a good question, one she herself didn't fully know the answer to. Maybe it was because of the way she felt all day, so raw and vulnerable, like an open wound. She was tired of living the same old nightmare day after day, and she'd gotten so desperate for a release, even an illusory one, that she'd sold her soul to the Blue Devil in exchange for a chance to feel strong again.

He began humming softly, a tune she recognized but couldn't place. She'd heard him singing it to Irisa once. The gentle rhythm rocked her like a lullaby, the ones her grandmother used to sing. She felt herself being pulled under into a deep, dreamless sleep. The last thing she was aware of before the world went dark was his hand, gently rubbing her shoulder, and the soft hum of his voice.


End file.
